Kiss Me
by Darknightdestiny
Summary: Vincent x Tifa. An annual Valentine's bundle for Jess Angel. This year's story is about acceptance and change.
1. Scenario One, 2004

**Forward:**

_The __Kiss Me__ collection started out as a one-shot Valentine's gift-fic for Jess Angel in 2004. It was written before this author had knowledge of the Compilation, also to be taken as a possible epilogue for my story __To Know You (though they can easily stand alone)__, and is therefore in line with the original game canon. Since the creation of __Kiss Me__, new scenarios (or possible epilogues) have been added; there is a marked difference between the writing in the first scenario and those which follow it, as my writing has evolved and improved over time, and there was a three-year gap between the first and second installments (likewise, __To Know You__ reflects this against my other more recent works). I have decided not to rewrite or change anything in the first chapter; it was a gift, and I enjoyed making it just as much as, if not moreso than, the rest of these. Please keep this in mind if you are starting from the beginning._

_Thank you, and a Happy Valentine's Day to you all. Kind words are better than chocolate or roses._

_These are for Jess Angel._

* * *

**Kiss Me**

_For Jess Angel_

**(-2004-)**

It was a calm and peaceful night in the city of Junon. The entire seafront was quiet, and the citizens were scarce. The fog hung so thickly over the ocean that anyone roaming the beach that evening could easily get lost, not to mention emerge from the shore with damp clothes and hair from the condensation. Those who had to travel over the bridges in their vehicles were cautioned to drive slowly; it was difficult for the operations team to see oncoming ships through the dense mist. All that could be heard from the mainland was the clanging of the buoys in the water, and the gentle waves lapping at the shoreline.

Several blocks from the pier, a warm light beckoned townspeople and travelers alike to a toasty fire, a hot meal, and perhaps a drink or two. A small chorus of voices could be heard from the entrance whenever the doors would swing open as sailors, fishermen, tourists and townies were gathered together at the bar. There was a deep clunking of the mugs as they hit the wooden surface of the tables, and loud laughter filled the room. The fog crept up around the building from outside and left its mark on the windows, but inside it was warm and inviting.

It was to this atmosphere that he entered, bringing with him the dampness in his clothing, and the smell of the sea in his hair. He paused in his stride and glanced up to take in the familiar decorum of the bar. He had been there so many times, but something told him that he should want to take in everything around him that night. His gaze fell on the set of shark jaws hanging on the wall above the dry-erase board that held the specials of the day, and he was vaguely reminded of something- someone- else that was beautiful but deadly, peaceful yet a force to be reckoned with.

He walked casually up to the bar and sat at one of the barstools, pulling off his coat first and laying it across the counter next to him. He stayed there with his head down and his fingers laced, his eyes tracing patterns in the varnished wood until she appeared before him with her hands on her hips, that golden smile of hers as white as ever and as precious as the rarest seashell, a vision that only she had, and something that only she could give.

"Vincent..." came the soft voice, "you came to see me."

Still shy around him, even after all they had been through. Something told him that she still couldn't believe she had forced her way into his life without even trying, all because she couldn't stand to lose him as her friend. Of course he had come to see her. Didn't he always? There had been no set day and time that he had marked for the usual occasion, but he did make the effort.

"...I do. I have," he replied, his eyes glinting in the dim lighting above them, his line of vision slowly waltzing from the countertop to her face and back again.

She smiled warmly at him. "What'll it be?"

He made like he was about to answer, then paused, thinking it over in his head. "...That drink you make...the one with the blended juices." He swirled his finger idly on the surface of the shining wood, a subconscious visualization of his request. "Just put a shot of rum in that and I will be satisfied."

"Just one?" she asked.

"...Just one," he replied.

Tifa retreated from the front of the bar and turned on her heel, grabbing the best selection she could find, a thin bottle of dark, full-bodied liquid that was brewed and bottled right there in the harbor and known the whole planet over for its quality. She set it next to the slicing board and pulled some fruit out of the ice chest and began to cut it.

"...There is some ready in that pitcher over there," came the quiet voice from the counter.

"I know," came her answer, "but I'd rather make it fresh." She continued to slice the fruit and juice it, and when she was finished she poured the mix into the blender with a cup of ice chips, and she grabbed a shot glass from the shelf. She measured out exactly one shot, and threw it in with the rest before tightening the lid and flicking the switch. The blades whirred to life and ground the ice to bits, leaving a cold, thick froth in their wake.

She pulled a chilled glass from the oversized freezer and poured the mix into the glass, topped it off with a cherry and a wedge of lime, and slid it across the counter to Vincent. She waited patiently on the other side of the bar for him to take a sip and tell her how it was. After a few moments of silence, he took the glass and did taste it.

"...Well?" she asked, resting both of her elbows on the counter and letting her chin rest in them, bringing herself to his eye level. He stared down into the drink in his hand for a few seconds more, and then he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. One side of his mouth quirked slightly upwards.

"Not bad."

Tifa pursed her lips in mock frustration. "I'll take that as a compliment," she said, and she turned quickly away in a mild huff meant more or less out of humor, and began to check on the other customers. Just then, an energetic young redhead rushed out of the kitchen door and gave Tifa a giant hug. "Karlie, it was really no big deal," Tifa said to the girl.

"No, really," Karlie said, "thank you so much for letting me go early tonight. I can spend the evening with Travis. I really can't thank you enough!"

"Nonsense," Tifa replied as the girl headed for the door, her voice rising in volume as she departed, "It's Valentine's Day! You should be with him!"

Karlie grinned widely once more and called back to her as she opened the door, "I left something for you on the counter in the back! It's the least I could do! Have a great night!" Karlie then disappeared out onto the street, and she was enveloped by the fog and disappeared from view.

Tifa sighed and returned to her spot behind the counter, and she began to wipe down the dirty glasses. As soon as she had started, a couple entered the tavern and sat themselves at a table by the fire. Tifa dropped her dish rag and went over to greet them and take their drink order. She walked quickly over to the table, put on her cheeriest smile, and asked the two, "How are you doing this evening?"

The reply was deadpan and honest, though it wasn't what she was expecting. The woman was the one to answer, and she was very clear with her words. "Dreadful," she said, "Absolutely dreadful. The fog was so thick that we wasted half an hour getting here, and I'd just gotten my hair done and now it's all wet. I'm tired and I'm hungry, so I expect some good service."

Tifa blinked for a moment, then mustered up the last bit of courage and energy she had and said to her with all sincerity, "Well, I will do the best I can. What can I get you?"

"I hope that's enough, then," the woman retorted, "and I'll have a glass of your Junon Harbor Iced Tea."

Tifa nodded respectfully. "Coming right up," she finished with a smile and returned to the bar, her eyes wide with the unasked question, 'What did I do to deserve this kind of treatment?'

She grabbed a cold glass from the freezer and set it under the cooling machine that held the tea, and she released the valve and let it pour into the glass. She went and sliced up an orange and juiced it, and she washed some strawberries and sliced off the ends. She quickly threw the contents into the blender and mixed it all together, and she grabbed another shot glass from the shelf. She measured exactly one shot of whiskey and stopped the blender long enough to pour it in with the rest of the concoction, and she tightened the lid soon after and mixed it all together. She then filled the glass she had used for the tea with ice, and poured the mix over it, topping it off with a small slice of kiwi fruit.

As Tifa exited the bar and headed towards their table, she realized that in her sudden bout of flusteredness, she had forgotten to ask what the woman's husband had wanted. She picked up her pace and set the drink down in front of the woman, and turned to the man. "I'm sorry," she said, "is there something I can get you to drink?"

"Scotch on the rocks," was all he said, and she let out a small sigh of relief as she left, grateful to have been given a more simple request. She made her way back around to the other side of the bar and grabbed the bottle of scotch off of the shelf, and she took a shorter, thicker glass from the stacks to her right and filled it with ice. She then began to pour the liquor over the ice when she heard the door open again, and she saw another couple enter the tavern and seat themselves.

Tifa hurried back to the table and set the drink down next to the man. He took it and immediately began to sip from it, and she was about to rush off to greet her new patrons when the woman cut in. "I know what I want." Tifa stopped and nodded, then produced a pen and a small notepad from her waist-apron and began to jot down the table number. "I'll have the grilled fish fillet with the diver's salad, the dressing on the side now, I don't want the lettuce getting soggy." Tifa was nodding the entire time she was writing this down, and she turned to the man that was sitting with her.

"And what can I get for you?" she asked.

"I want a burger with home-fries."

Why couldn't everyone be as simple as this man? "All right, I'll put your order in and bring it out to you as soon as it's ready." Tifa put the pad in the pocket of her apron and went over to the next table. "How are you doing tonight?" she asked.

The two that were sitting there were quite calm and didn't give her any trouble at all. In fact, she was rather relieved. "We're doing fine, and yourself?" the man asked her.

Tifa ran the back of her hand over her head. "I guess I'm okay. What'll it be to drink?"

"I'll have a water with lemon," said the woman.

"And I'll have an iced tea," said the man.

Tifa couldn't help but smile when she heard this, and she replied with, "Coming right up!"

Tifa hustled back to the bar and poured a tall glass of water from one of the fountains, and she poured another glass of iced tea from the same unit as she had used to make the other woman's Junon tea. She sliced two wedges of lemon and topped the glasses with them, and she set them side by side on the counter. She pulled the food order from the first table out of her pocket and went through the kitchen door to see the cook, and let him know what they wanted.

"Orlando!" she called, amidst the steam from the open dishwashers and the sizzling of the fryer. "Orlando, I've got a food ticket for you!"

"Yeah?" he called back. "Bring it over!"

Tifa walked over to him, winding around metal counters and trying not to slip on the slick floors and land herself onto something that would burn her. She followed the sound of his voice and found him in the back, chopping onions. "Here," she said. "This is for table thirteen." Orlando took the ticket and nodded, and went back to chopping onions. Tifa backed away and carefully made her way back out to the bar area, feeling almost refreshed by the thick, fog-laden air that drifted in from outside after being in the hot kitchen. She stopped to pick up the drinks she had just made, and turned to take them to the table. And she froze.

There were now three new couples sitting in the tavern, none of them having been met yet or offered drinks. Why oh why was it that the restaurant was dead all day until Karlie left? Tifa felt her heart sink, and she was at a loss for what to do. She knew she would have to handle this on her own, and poor Orlando was all alone in the kitchen. She was afraid that some of the people would leave out of annoyance at the slowness of her service, but if that happened, there was nothing she could do about it.

Taking a deep breath, Tifa walked out with the drinks and placed them in front of her guests, and took out her pen and pad and took their orders. She calmly made her way over to the next table that she had seen; she didn't know who had sat down first or how long any of them had been sitting there, but she would have to take it all one step at a time. She stopped by the table and greeted the couple and took their drink orders. This time, however, she moved on to the next table and took their drink orders as well, and the next also. She figured she could make all six drinks at once, and then deliver them together.

This she did with no difficulty, but she had to stop as a result and explain that she would be right back to take their food orders as she had to drop off some other drinks. She then made her rounds again and picked up the food orders and then ran them back to the kitchen and gave them to Orlando, who seemed like his spirits had fallen a little too low and a little too quickly for someone who was going to spend his evening whipping up confections for other people. Tifa, however, was going to have a hard time keeping up her friendly demeanor as well.

She exited the kitchen to find that another couple had settled into the tavern for the evening. It wasn't as bad as having three at once, but it was still not a break, which she had been hoping for. She needed time to collect her thoughts and form some sort of strategy, so that she didn't break down. She looked at the clock on the wall and found that it had only been seventeen minutes since Karlie had left. The restaurant would be open for another three and a half hours.

Tifa looked around her and saw that there were dishes that needed to be taken care of, and tables that needed to be wiped off. She realized that Orlando wouldn't be able to take care of all the dishes by himself, because he was busy cooking food for ten other people, and there were still two more to be counted for. She would have to wipe them down herself and take the dishes to the kitchen, and hopefully if he had some time where he only had to wait for water to boil or meat to finish browning, then maybe he would have time to send a load through.

If it really came down to it, she supposed she could lock the doors. Then again, she hadn't given anyone advanced warning that they would be closed, and there were some people who visited the place regularly. She sighed heavily and turned to exit the bar. As she was passing the counter, she felt a hand reach out and hold her back.

Tifa turned her head to see Vincent turned slightly in his chair, her arm firmly held in his grasp. "Vincent," she said, "I would really love to stop and talk with you, but I'm sure you can understand that I'm quite-"

"Tell me what to do," he told her, his voice low and firm in the obvious implication.

"What...Vincent, you know I could never ask you to-"

"I will clean tables," he intoned softly, "if that will help you."

Tifa stopped and stared at Vincent in bewilderment as he loosened his grip on her arm and rose from his seat. He picked up his coat and hung it on one of the hooks in the wall where the waist-aprons were hanging. Her gaze didn't let up as she saw him roll up the sleeves of his black, button-down dress shirt and tie one of those aprons around his waist. He promptly made his way from the place where he stood and walked out into the dining area, where he picked a table, stacked its dirty dishes, and returned with them, disappearing through the kitchen door.

Tifa stood there for a few more seconds in a bit of shock before she realized that if she only stood there, then she was wasting the time he was trying to buy her. She hurried away from the bar area and out to the couple that had just sat themselves at a table. She took their drink order quickly, and she returned to the bar to make them. She eyed the first couple that she'd greeted since Karlie had left, and the woman seemed a bit upset over something. Tifa looked at the clock again and realized that it had probably been about twenty minutes since the two had ordered their food, and the woman was most likely getting impatient.

Tifa rushed from the bar and served the two new guests their drinks. On her way back, she was stopped by the woman, just as she feared and knew somewhere in the back of her mind that she would be. "Miss, we've been waiting half an hour," the woman complained. "What is taking so long?" Tifa opened her mouth to reply, but she was stopped short by the clinking of a stand dropping down next to her. Her head turned sharply, and she saw none other than Vincent, balancing a large tray on his shoulder and crouching down to set it on the stand, and she noticed that his left arm was covered in a long black rubber glove from the kitchen. She watched in surprise, her mouth still open, as he passed the food out to the two, lifting each item one by one with his right hand, and then as he picked the tray back up, folded the stand, and nodded before going back to the kitchen.

"...Well, I hope you enjoy your dinner," was all that Tifa could say.

"What's wrong with him?" asked the woman. "He didn't say a thing. How did he know this was mine and not his?" she asked, pointing to the man across from her.

"Eh...lucky guess?" Tifa said, unsure of what else there really was to reply with. The woman blinked at her, also unsure of what would be an adequate return, and Tifa used the opportunity to rush off into the kitchen. When she got there, she found herself watching a perplexed Vincent as he stared at the dishwasher.

"...I do not believe I know how to use such a thing," he stated matter-of-factly.

Tifa quickly showed him what to do, told him what dials to turn, what buttons to push, and where was the most convenient section in which to place certain articles of dishware, so that the most efficient use of the machine could be made. When she'd finished, she said, "That woman out there asked me why you didn't say anything to her. What should I tell her?"

"You can tell her that I am mute."

"Lie to her? Vincent," she continued, shaking her head with a joking expression on her face, mocking his usually somber attitude towards the things which he deemed sinful, "that would be wrong."

"You may add it to my list."

"Vincent!" Tifa punched his shoulder lightly, and as soon as she had made contact with his arm, she found herself staring down the head of the kitchen hose, Vincent's trigger finger playing on the release valve. She backed away cautiously. "You wouldn't..."

"...No. I would not. You still have guests to attend to. However, you should be careful later on this evening," he warned. For some reason, Tifa took this quite seriously, and she couldn't tell if he was joking or if he was upset with her for mocking him. Either way, she decided it was best that she take his advice, and she went back out into the restaurant, ready to meet the many guests that would enter that evening.

Orlando came up behind Vincent as he loaded the dishes into the washer. He clapped one hand down on his back rather roughly, and Vincent flinched at the contact. Vincent backed out of his grasp, and Orlando shook his head slowly and laughed. Vincent watched the man, clueless as to the source of his mirth, but Orlando just waved his hand and retreated back to his pots and pans and began to stir away at the contents within. Vincent watched him for a while, and then he went back to taking care of the dishes.

·¤·

Tifa sat at one end of the bar, staring Vincent down. "Vincent, please stop. We can do this later; Orlando has gone home already. Just sit down and relax for one minute."

"...I have almost finished." Vincent finished wiping down the last table and he picked up the chairs and flipped them over, setting them up on top of the wooden surface. He then disappeared into the kitchen once more, and Tifa put her chin down to rest on her folded arms. He emerged from the back again, his glove gone and his golden appendage visible once more. He stopped at the spot on the wall where his coat was hanging, and he untied the apron from his waist and replaced it on the hook. Once he had done that, he abruptly sank into the nearest booth.

He lay there for a few minutes to catch his breath, staring at the ceiling of the room and the dim lights that hung down from it. They were a common light to be found in a restaurant, the kind that had bulbs made to look like candle flames. They seemed to give a cozier feeling to the place, whether they were real or not.

Tifa watched his unmoving knees and shins as they stuck out from the side of the booth with utter amusement, since this was the only part of his body that she could actually see. "Vincent..." she called softly.

Vincent sighed from his spot on the cushioned bench and rose from his position, placing one arm to rest over the back of the seat. Blood red eyes peeked over a wood backing to a deep green cushion, hair black as night falling over the side. "Yes?"

"...I want to thank you for everything that you did tonight." Tifa's fingers played at each other and rubbed at the counter. "I would never have been able to do it without you. You...you really did a big favor for me tonight, Vincent. I don't know if you realize how much trouble you've saved me."

"You are welcome. But you must know what I am going to ask you."

"Vincent, it was dead all day!" Tifa exclaimed. "I sent everyone home because I didn't think we were going to get any business. How was I supposed to know that we would pick up so quickly?"

One side of his mouth tugged upwards, and he let a small laugh escape through his nose before falling back down into the booth. He stayed there for some time, relaxing as she had suggested, until he heard a soft crinkling of plastic coming from her side of the room. He rose from his position once more to watch her. She was sitting at the bar, playing with a package that was set in front of her. She looked over at him as she had been doing quite periodically without his knowing, and when he caught her eye, he raised one of his eyebrows in question.

Tifa smiled. "Karlie left them for me." She shook her head and laughed a bit inside, sure that Vincent would think it silly. "We used to play with these things all the time back when I was little."

Vincent frowned in confusion. "...What are they?"

Tifa's smile grew wider. "They're little candy hearts. They started printing them when I was a kid. They were all the rage...they have little sayings on them, and we'd give them to one another. I guess it was supposed to be for hinting sweet nothings, but they were so common that no one really took it seriously." She felt a bit ridiculous explaining this, but Vincent only tilted his head and sighed.

She watched him tentatively, and then busied herself with opening the package. She was suddenly struck with the thought of him standing there in the kitchen with the nozzle of the hose in his hand, and either out of sheer determination to continue their short banter, or perhaps exhaustion from the day and just not giving a phrack about what he would do to her, she flicked the first piece that fell out of the bag at him. She had positioned it on the countertop and lined it up with his head like she would have a paper football, and sure enough, it thwacked him on the side of his cranium.

Vincent ducked down into the booth a bit late, and she put a hand to her mouth, hoping that she didn't knock him too hard. She paused, wincing as she awaited his reaction, but she didn't foresee one. Just as she was beginning to get a bit worried, her thoughts were interrupted by a soft yet very short laugh from his direction. Tifa dismounted from the chair she had set up at her end of the bar and started to walk cautiously towards his booth. "What's so funny?" she asked.

"...Nothing." Quiet, undisturbed and smooth came the reply.

"It didn't sound like nothing." The skepticism rang true in her voice.

"Perhaps I am lying again."

"Is it because I hit you in the head with a piece of candy?" She laughed at this, because it did sound rather silly. She came upon him as he lay in the booth, his back curled up against the wall and his shoulders hunched up next to his neck. His legs were bent up at the knee, and he was holding something in his hand. Tifa immediately recognized it as the piece of candy that she had thrown at him.

Vincent was looking at the candy, examining it in his hand. He paused in his appraisal of the thing and looked up at Tifa, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. She could tell this by the way he pressed his mouth firmly together, tightening his lips, only to have to resort to letting his upper lip fall over his lower one as he bit down on it.

"...What?" she asked.

Vincent looked at her with an expression that said, 'You know what...or maybe you don't. But it doesn't matter, because I'm not telling,' and then he returned his gaze to the small piece in his hand. He did finally let the left side of his mouth rise in a small grin, and Tifa continued to beg him with her varied expressions to tell her what was so funny. She began to grow hot in the face, and then it became worse when she realized that it was obviously because of whatever was printed on the piece that he was eyeing her with such a regard.

Tifa's eyes went wide with fear and possibly a bit of embarrassment, as she felt her stomach twist in knots. "What did it say?" she asked him. He only looked up at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes, the grin actually growing on his face. "...Vincent?"

Before she had time to ask him again, he'd flattened his knees and reached out to grab her arm. He pulled her down with him, and without her knowing what had happened, she found herself lip-locked with him, his hand threading through her hair, holding her close to him by the back of her head. Her eyes went wide when she realized she was in his arms, realized her own forearms were resting against his chest, realized her knee had almost landed somewhere that would have been quite painful for him, and even more when she realized that he probably wouldn't have cared.

Vincent stroked the spot at the nape of her neck softly, and savored the moment for just a bit longer, and then he pulled back. Tifa was staring at him in shock, but she didn't run away. He reached down and took her hand up in his, and folded it, pushing it towards her. When he let go, she realized he had left something in it, and when she opened it, she found the candy heart. She looked at him, wondering what the meaning of this was, but then she read it, and it made perfect sense.

'Kiss me', it said.

Vincent's eyes searched Tifa's face as she read the inscription, her eyes going wide again, but then softening a bit. She slipped the piece of candy into a pocket in her skirt and stayed there watching him for a bit, wondering if he was going to say anything. But to him, his actions were self-explanatory, and nothing else needed to be said.

Tifa gazed down into his bright red eyes, watching as they caught the light given by the false chandeliers and reflected it a million times over, shooting it back and forth like a bullet trapped in an unbreakable prism. She felt his hand snake down from her neck and wind itself around a lower portion of her hair, pulling the heavy strands from her back and keeping them out of their way.

Vincent kept his gaze locked on her eyes, but then his expression softened further, and his gaze started to shift to her mouth, then back up into her eyes, and then to her mouth again. Tifa felt the pace of her heart quicken, and she inched forward ever so slowly. She was a fingertip's width away from his mouth when she began to feel her hands trembling, and he shifted beneath her and brought his left arm up to grasp her hand. He hesitated for a moment, but she saw his intention and placed her hand in his.

Vincent heard her heartbeat race and felt her breathing become heavy. "...There is no reason to be afraid," he whispered.

"I know," she replied in a shaking, barely audible voice. She leaned forward and felt the skin of her lips brush up against his; her sudden impulse overcame her fear, and she claimed his lower lip between her own. Vincent wound her hair up and released it, moving his hand to caress her jawline. He stroked her skin with his fingers, and brought his hand down to her chin, his thumb coming to rest underneath of her lip. He gently fit his thumb up onto the edge of her bottom lip, and he guided her mouth a bit higher, nudging her off his own lower lip, and he tilted his head to the side, softly prying her own mouth open with his.

Tifa sighed as she felt the force of the kiss die away, and she was left with light brushings of his mouth against hers. He teased her, lingering there longer at some times than others. Soon enough, he pulled her close again with his hand, and he was trailing her top lip with his tongue. She ran her hand through his hair, and he brought his hand up to her chin again, and he entered her mouth. His touch wasn't rough or hungry, but soft and gentle. His tongue massaged hers as lightly as his thumb stroked the soft skin between her jaw and her neck, and when he finally pulled back, she didn't want him to stop.

Vincent stared up at Tifa, adoration in his eyes. She'd never seen that look in him in all the time they'd spent together. He had looked at her with care a few times, even with humor once or twice, and she knew that he had eventually come to consider her as his friend. But she had never witnessed this. He adored her.

Tifa reached out and tugged playfully on one of his dark strands. "You should come to rescue me more often."

Vincent smirked at her. "If you send everyone home, it should work."

Tifa was about to defend herself again for her poor planning, but then she stopped to think about all the possible implications in that sentence. She cast a knowing look at Vincent and couldn't help but smile when she saw the other side of his mouth start to rise as well. "Vincent, I'd never have thought you would make a joke like that." She pinched him in the side and speedily backed up with glee as he jolted into a sitting position.

Tifa laughed as he quickly retaliated by pinching her in the side as well. She tried to stop him from doing it again, but he was quite fast, even for her. She finally got a hold on his hand with both of hers and refused to let go, and so he twisted his arm in her grip and grabbed a hold of her left wrist. She whimpered in mock fear as he drew her close once more...

...and claimed her mouth again.

·¤·

_Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997, Square Enix Co., Ltd._


	2. Scenario Two, 2007

**Kiss Me**

_For Jess Angel_

**(-Scenario Two, 2007-)**

"I hate this holiday."

Vincent smiled discreetly in the direction of his sighing friend. Tifa was just putting up the last of the chairs, working with an almost comical fervor in an effort to get the hell out of the bar and into her warm apartment, away from the waning excitement of the day, foisted on herself and every other establishment in town by the marked occassion. She needed no invitation to continue, but for the sake of sharing in the conversation (or rant, as it were) and appearing the ever-attentive listener, he indulged her with an honest-enough, "Why is that?"

"Because," she retorted with unexpected force, "it's all a lie."

He raised an eyebrow at that, humored to be a part of this little insight into Tifa's social observations. "And how, might I ask, is it a lie?"

Tifa turned the last chair upside-down and set it onto the nearby table with a shortened 'clunk'. "Gods, Vincent, where have you been?" she asked, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms.

She was rewarded with another small smile, which she returned upon seeing. "...You know."

"Yes, I do. _You_ tell _me_, Vincent," she continued, her arms parting to rest atop the bar-top behind her, "were the men and women of your day so frivolous?"

Was she mocking him? It was his turn to cross his arms. "Some people enjoy frivolities."

"That's not what I asked," she countered. "Do you have any idea how many people go out and grab a date just because they feel like they have to? It's like a crime to be alone."

"Misery loves company."

"Right. Well, what about the people who already have someone? Isn't it silly that they celebrate it one day out of the entire year? I mean, why shouldn't they be like this all the time?"

"I imagine they would get sick of each other."

She sighed again. "My point is, no one has to mean anything they say or do today. It's all assumed. One big excuse. I bet none of the people who are in relationships are fazed by this day at all, and I bet none of the people who aren't feel satisfied, either. They're all liars."

"Liars with dates," he couldn't help but point out.

She crossed her arms again, and pushed away from the counter, making her way over to where he sat perched on the corner of one of the booth tables. "Then what are you doing here with me?"

He grinned, very satisfied with himself. "I hate this holiday."

"Then why are you arguing with me?"

"You make it very easy."

"Hmm." She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Hmm." He narrowed his back.

Tifa smiled shyly at him. "So is that it? Misery loves company?"

"Ah-ah," he clipped, silencing her with a raised hand. "While that is true with most, you do know, as we've already discussed, that I prefer to be alone when miserable."

She eyed him with yet more skepticism. "Then you like hanging out late at the bar, helping me close up?"

He grinned. "I must admit, the time spent after is much more enjoyable."

Her fist connected playfully with his shoulder. "Come on, we're going to be late."

"But we are already late," he protested, following her toward the door.

"All the more reason to hurry."

·¤·

The port city of Junon was unique in that, the further down the coast one walked, the later the bars were open. Certain districts had different liquor laws entirely. While Seventh Heaven closed at a standard hour of two in the morning, The Goblin (her competition in Midgar, she noted with some irony) was open until four. After cleanup and the time it took to make it over there, that afforded Tifa and Vincent enough time to join in a drink with the others.

The Goblin was a stand-offish, square building that shared a rather large parking lot with a nearby bowling alley. There was nothing impressive about its appearance - plain, tan paint job and a placard stating the required age for ladies was eighteen, twenty-one for gentlemen - but inside it was much larger and nicer than it seemed at first glance.

The heavy, double doors opened into a narrow, carpeted hallway, an open billiards room to the left with a miniature bar and a curtained lounge to the right with a vintage cigarette vendor in the corner. The main room ahead was dimly lighted, and consisted of a large, circular bar-top to the left, another long bar which stretched along the wall to her right, perpendicular to the entrance, and more leather couches on the far side of the room. There was a vacant, wooden dance floor of a decent size in the middle of the room, and a stage across from the main bar with a box for a deejay, but there was no need for one at this time of night. There were a few sparsely-populated tables in the bar, and several unattended touch-screen games.

In fact, Tifa thought, looking around, there didn't seem to be many people there at all. She wondered if it was usually busier than it was currently; surely a place like that wouldn't keep in business without a large amount of regulars.

"How the hell am I supposed to compete with this?" she breathed, half-humored and half-threatened.

Vincent smiled to himself, but made no sound to indicate that he had heard. Instead, he walked in the direction of the couches on the far side of the room, and her eyes followed as he brushed past her to find Cid and Shera waving from their spot amongst the cushions. She recognized them instantly (Vincent would hardly saunter on over to another crazy couple waving animatedly at him in a near-empty bar) and made her way over to join them.

"Vince!" Cid greeted, as Tifa accepted Shera's warm embrace. "How ya been, old man?"

Vincent winced, post the clap he received on his back. "Didn't we do this the last time we saw each other?"

"Yeah, but I figure we don't see each other too often, so I have to take what I can get, when I can get it."

The young-old man's eyes flared with a disbelieving sort of amusement and then quickly settled into a smile as he seated himself. "For every wrinkle you find on my face, I will buy you a drink."

Cid frowned as the two ladies laughed and Vincent brought his hands back to rest behind his head, a certain smugness creeping over his face. "Forget it. S'not fun anymore." And then he flopped back down and turned his nose up in feigned disdain, just to reward the bastard.

"We Valentines age with dignity."

"Shut up."

Shera placed a sympathetic hand on her husband's shoulder and turned to Tifa as they both sat down. "Cloud and Grace went down the street a little while ago to grab something to eat. They should be back soon."

Tifa's eyebrows shot up. "How are they doing, anyway?"

"You'd have to ask them," Shera said smiling, "but they look really happy to me. Tifa, you should see her. She is _beautiful_."

Vincent raised an eyebrow at Cid, who shrugged in response. Both men watched Tifa for any signs of discomfort, but they weren't always so obvious anymore. Either that, or they were fading. Vincent hoped for the latter. Tifa had never been desperate, never threw herself in Cloud's direction, and was strangely comfortable leaving him to his own devices, but to those who'd known how much she'd invested in him during the Jenova War, there was still the notion that she had gotten a rather raw deal. There had been a small amount of tension between the two when Vincent and Tifa had gotten re-acquainted, but it had gone when they'd drifted apart.

This didn't stop Vincent from feeling apprehensive about the situation, or from thinking that awkwardness might return.

Neither Vincent nor Tifa had met Cloud's new girlfriend, but they had heard about her. A winning smile, a healthy glow, a pleasant laugh. They would have such good-looking children, people said.

It was on that note that the couple made their entrance, smiling and laughing. Shera stood instantly to greet them with welcoming arms.

Grace was a grinning, perfectly tanned, whisp of a blonde thing, with an eerily groomed appearance and a disposition that made one think she was selling something. She was hanging on Cloud's arm and talking animatedly, comfortable with Shera's easy embrace and instantly caught up in her rhythm.

Vincent winced as Tifa rolled her eyes and motioned to the nearest waiter.

·¤·

Vincent tilted his head as he leaned casually against the counter, folding his arms as he took in her frown. "Do you miss him?"

Tifa glanced over at him, blinking like she had only just caught the words. "...Oh," she said, her face softening as she lost herself in thought. "No, I don't miss him. That's not it. That's not it at all..." she trailed away, then opened and shut her mouth as if she'd wanted to say something more, then thought better of it. Vincent did not remove his gaze, and after a long pause, he was rewarded with the remnants of her wanderings. "...Did you think she was pretty?"

Silly woman, he thought, comparing herself to that girl. He pushed off of the counter, casually brushing past her to rummage around in a cabinet. "She wasn't _hideous_," he admitted, biting away the smile which threatened to break through, "and a lot of men would be attracted to that type. However," he added, stopping by her ear and leaning down conspiratorially as he retreated with a rocks glass, "I believe you have her beat."

"...Really," she dead-panned, eyeing his back with more than skepticism.

"Hands down, no contest," he called lightly, as he made his way into her living room.

She followed him out onto the couch, where she plopped down next to him and continued her accusatory glare. "You're a liar."

He frowned back at her, a bit disturbed at her ready refusal of the compliment. "Why would I lie to you?"

"Because you want to spare my feelings."

"I do not lie," he said, twisting the cap from the bottle of scotch and pouring himself a drink.

"No?" she asked. "You were a Turk. Come to think of it, you should be pretty good at it. Why wouldn't you?"

Vincent narrowed his eyes at her, unnerved at the fact that her reference to his past had gotten to him, and irritated that she wouldn't just give it up. "When one is a Turk, one never _has_ to lie," he answered quite darkly, hoping the implications would sink into her suddenly thick skull.

Tifa only crossed her arms and looked away. "Yeah? Did you hear the way Shera talked about her? I've never heard of anyone talking about me like that when I wasn't around."

Upon hearing this, Vincent began to chuckle. Tifa's head whipped around to glare at him.

"What's so funny?"

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he relaxed into the sofa. "Do you listen to yourself? Honestly, if you were hearing these things in your own absence, I should be worried."

"...Huh?"

"That is the point," he smiled, taking a sip and setting the glass down with an audible clunk. "If you are not around to hear it, then how would you know?"

She scoffed. "I doubt it."

"Why do you do it?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Compare yourself. You said it wasn't about Cloud, so why do you feel the need to compare yourself to his girlfriend?"

Tifa dropped her chin into her hand. "I don't know," she sighed. "It's not just her, I guess."

After a moment of silence passed, Vincent decided to nudge her a bit. "Care to elaborate?" She'd always thought that talking was good for_him_, so he felt justified.

"Well, did you see the way she got on with Shera? Like they'd always been so comfortable. I'm not like that. It took me forever to build that with her."

"...So you are jealous over Shera, then?"

"No," she sighed. "I know I said I hate this day, but... oh, I don't know. I felt so...plain. Invisible." Tifa gestured with her hand, helplessly. "I just...it would be nice, you know? To have someone say those things about me. I don't need the gifts, or the public displays. I just need to feel like _someone_ out there..."

Vincent waited patiently for her to finish, but she only looked apologetic and waved her hand dismissively.

"But I'm okay," she said, fumbling with the movie case on her coffee table. "I'd probably never find a guy I could stand to be around, outside of Avalanche."

"If you're talking about your regulars," he joked, flexing his claw, "they would never get close. But what is preventing you from seeking out other companions? You don't have to spend all your free time with me."

Tifa laughed as she inserted the feature into the machine. "And settle for some average schmoe who's never saved the world? Please."

Vincent grinned wholeheartedly. "You have very high expectations."

"See? My dating pool is very limited," she said with feigned weariness, collapsing next to him. "No, I'm perfectly content to laze around with you. Why go and mess that up? Not worth it, if you ask me."

"Hmm," he mused quietly to himself as she curled up beside his warm body.

"Just... don't mind it if I get a little funny every now and then."

"I suppose you're right," Vincent admitted, sinking back into the cushions as Tifa relaxed against him. "If you are perfectly happy where you are, then there is no sense in doing anything to change that."

Tifa twisted her head around to look up at him, wondering at the strange undertone of his voice, suggestive if she had heard correctly. He must have felt her shift against his side, she was sure of it, but Vincent was staring straight ahead at the television. In fact, he seemed to be looking _through_ it; there was an unusual amount of concentration there, almost like he was trying to keep glued to the screen, but not really paying much attention to the images that were passing over it. She waited for a moment more - he _must_ have felt her eyes on him - before settling back down.

What exactly was she trying to tell him? Was he reading too much into it? Did she know that he'd been thinking all those things she wished someone would outright say for far too long?

In the months following their reunion, Tifa had grown familiar to his presence rather quickly. She was never too shy to lean into his shoulder, or grab his hand and tug him around. Always the aggressor, and he simply did not intimidate her anymore. So when she said, 'Why go and mess that up?' she couldn't really be telling _him_ to back off, could she?

Was she trying to tell him that she wasn't going anywhere, then? Was she looking for a reaction? A dating pool limited to saviors of the Planet, and considering the status of the other members, he was her prime candidate. But no sense in analyzing that; it was a _joke_. She'd only been kidding, nervous, trying to cheer herself up.

Tifa was lonely, despite his company. Though there was nothing stopping her from going out and meeting anyone else. Maybe she was testing the waters, dropping hints. Maybe she was unsure if he was even an option...

To jump into something as a mere crutch would be wrong, but Tifa never had to settle. She could easily have any decent man, and she was smart enough to tell the difference. But if leading the terribly abundant life she had only dulled her to the idea of normalcy, if they were worlds apart from everyone else and pleasant company but nothing more, then it would be a grievous mistake.

But perhaps there were ways to figure out exactly what she'd been getting at.

Curious digits, human by way of ownership but not in form, slid from the back of the sofa to drape casually over her hip. They were comfortable enough by now to not make a show of noticing those kinds of gestures, but Tifa was aware enough of things outside that busy box of flashing imagery across the room to adjust her body to the fit of his metal arm against her side. Nothing telling, perhaps, but he had her attention.

He was tempted to simply bring his other arm around, hands meeting together in a loose and relaxed hold that was open enough to interpretation that it couldn't possibly be held against him. It would give his uncertain fingers enough distraction, but because subtle and nonchalant was the only way to go about it, he realized it would only be a waste of effort. So he instead opted to force his human hand into an awkward and inconvenient position behind her neck, laying hold on her skin and easing into practiced, circular motions, starting at the nape of her neck.

The unprecedented action caused Tifa's heart to skip a beat, and a pattering, tangible heat ghosted its way up her back, something of which Vincent would no doubt take notice in no time at all. She'd stiffened instantly under his touch, but despite the initial shock, her eyes soon fluttered shut, grateful for the distraction, a respite from her hurried thoughts. It wasn't long before her entire body had gone lax, her flesh like pliant dough under firm, unhurried fingers as they shifted in unison to a more natural position on the couch.

He'd almost not noticed, the way he'd gravitated toward her, and he'd been honestly surprised when he found his chin hovering over her shoulder. Guided by her warmth and her scent, and his mouth was near to her ear. Unable to stop himself, even if he'd wanted to, he smiled and asked in a voice so low and smooth and utterly confident that he almost didn't believe it was his own, "Is that better?"

"Mm-hm." She tilted her head to the other side, lolling limply under his spell. Still not enough, he decided, conflicting courses of thought fighting for dominance behind his eyes. It was easy to get a reaction of that sort, considering what he was doing. So he moved from her neck, down the gentle slope of muscle to her shoulder. Kneading skin and muscle, down the side of her arm and back again.

Vincent became engrossed in his work, lazy in planning and thinking he had done enough for one night. Only he kept at it, pleased with the effect he was having all the same, and unwilling to relinquish his position as of yet. Tifa felt rather than saw his close proximity, barely inches away. Until she opened her eyes.

It was the barest hint of a reflection, in the glassy angle of an open window to her entertainment hutch, but clear enough to impart a stunning revelation. Caught by the way he looked when his lone hand moved over her skin, by the lengthy pause between the moment he closed his eyes and the moment they blinked open again. Soothing himself as much as he was her, it seemed, so much that he was unaware that he was being watched, stared at even, indirectly. Startled into amazement at how close his mouth was to her skin, and unsure if he even realized it himself.

She averted her eyes, lest she be caught observing. And breathed deeply. Something to calm her nerves, and the dizzy waves that were overtaking her, but she'd straightened with the movement, and made contact. His mouth brushed against her shoulder, and his eyes shot open.

It wasn't in the way she'd let him tug on her in return without question, or even in the tone of her voice as she'd sighed under his hand. Everything he needed was to be found in the way she went rigid then, proof that he'd gotten some sort of rise out of her. But the meaning behind her reaction was in the way she turned her head to the side, eyes lost somewhere and unreadable, like she was half-way ready to confront him but not sure of what to say. She hadn't met him with an easy grin and an even easier, dismissive laugh like she might have once upon a time.

When she had shifted around to fully face him, an apology was swift on his tongue, only he couldn't seem to make his mouth work. But the look in her eyes told him he'd been forgiven long before he'd thought to make excuses. There was some kind of wonder there, appreciation, because she'd discovered something new, and _gods, but they were so close_...

"I'm..."

But she only shook her head and began to smile. And when her eyelids dipped low and her nose brushed against his, his neck seemed to move of its own accord. Soft touches at first, breaking now and then as lips stretched back over grinning teeth, then sobering and warm, breathy and indulgent. Fingertips gracing cheeks and framing shoulders, exploring masterful features and combing through curtains of hair. Hushed voices, humming and sighing in praise and encouragement.

"You are beautiful," he finally murmured, forehead pressed to hers. "I should have told you sooner." A finger delicately traced the upward tilt of her chin.

Her arms were draped lightly over his shoulders, her hands playing with the warm hair at the nape of his neck. "...It means a lot, coming from you."

He was glad to hear that. "I was thinking it, if it makes any difference." _You were never invisible to me._

"It does," she said, placing a chaste but sound kiss on his mouth. "All the difference in the world. You know," she mused, "I don't believe I've ever had a valentine."

Vincent raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin already forming on his lips.

"Don't," she warned.

"I didn't say anything," he said matter-of-factly.

"But you were going to."

He shook his head. "Technically, Valentine's Day was over before we even set out from the bar."

"Spoilsport," she accused, leaning playfully into him.

"Very well then," he amended, along for the ride. "Tifa, you've never had a valentine, until you've _had a Valen_--"

"That's it, I'm cutting you off."

He chuckled softly. "I don't believe you."

She sighed, smiling as her arms tightened around him. "You're right," she said, voice lowering. "...Vincent, I'm sorry I called you a liar earlier."

He pulled her against him, resting his chin atop her head. "It's okay."

"...Can we stay like this for a little while?"

Vincent smiled into her hair. "For as long as you wish."

·¤·

_Final Fantasy VII and its characters are © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd._

* * *

**Note:** Hard to believe it's been so long. I'm in such a good mood today, mostly because I didn't think the site would be in working condition and post this on the date, and also because I didn't think I would get this done. Didn't go to bed last night. If the site is acting goofy, and you don't get to leave a review, I'd appreciate it if you came back! Let me know how you'd like this becoming an annual thing. 

Happy Valentine's Day!


	3. Scenario Three, 2008

**Kiss Me**

_For Jess Angel_

**(-Scenario Three, 2008-)**

She stood alone on the cobblestone walkway, beneath one of the newly-planted saplings lining the street. In her hand was a small piece of paper bearing an address, which she read by the lamplights surrounding the base of the young tree. From what she could tell, the number on her slip matched the number on the building ahead. She approached the steps with uncertainty.

It was late into the evening, and the building was secure. Her eyes scanned the directory for the magic numbers, but they lingered long after they'd been found. Arm paralyzed, she couldn't bring herself to press the buttons.

What if she was mistaken? If she had bad information, if it wasn't who she hoped to find waiting behind that door, what would she do then? If an unfamiliar voice echoed through the speaker, would she clam up and walk away, admitting defeat?

For that she had no answer, and so she stood deliberating until the sound of laughter approaching on her right startled her into the present. It was a couple, dressed in what passed for night-life attire as of late, and they seemed to be in good spirits. Not wanting to look a fool, she lowered her head and began rummaging around in her bag.

They stepped around her and stopped at the front door of that very same building.

"Here you go!"

Instinctively her head shot up, to find that the girl—couldn't be older than she—was holding the door for her as they passed through. She only hesitated a second, not wanting to be rude.

The blonde smiled and waved clumsily as her boyfriend dragged her to the elevators. "My purse is a bottomless pit too, right?"

She stood there blinking as the girl-woman was jerked into the car by her wrist and then pulled into quite the amiable embrace, and—well! She didn't need to see _that_. The doors closed not a moment too soon, both of them disappeared from sight, and she was alone again.

So much for security.

She had a choice; but it wasn't one at all, really. There was nothing else _to_ choose. It was Fate, it was Providence, a sign from Some Happy Face smiling down upon her own little world (or taunting her, depending on how things turned out—and why wasn't that _her_ fault?), whatever name she chose to give to it, even if it was only 'That Inebriated Woman'. But she was given the opportunity. Best not to squander it.

Ten minutes later, she was standing in a carpeted hallway on the third floor, wondering why she'd gone all the way out there when the man obviously wasn't interested in answering her phone calls. A few more gelatinous steps brought her to his door, and she began to think that perhaps it was not such a great idea to drop by unannounced, particularly if there was a chance that her presence was unwanted.

She was so lost in her doubt and apprehension that she hadn't noticed the rapping sound. Not until it permeated her thoughts and she was aware enough to note, and not without horror, that it was coming from something that looked suspiciously like her very own hand—attached to one very traitorous arm—knocking against the grain of the door. Quickly she withdrew it, and her arm stiffened at her side.

Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. If she listened hard enough, she could hear past it and beyond to the subtle noise of a television or radio in the apartment. She couldn't make out any of the language, of course; she couldn't get her ears to stop ringing.

She could leave. Round the nearest corner and sprint quietly back to the elevator. She shouldn't even be there, had no business _stalking_ the man after the crazy stunt she pulled when she looked up his mother (she was only trying to help), and she was willing to bet that he wouldn't bother hunting down the punk who ding-dong-dashed him if she wasn't standing there when he opened the door.

Just as soon as the thought entered her mind and before she had a chance to brace herself, there was distinct movement very near to the door, and she heard the dull clink of the latch being undone. The knob turned, the hinges creaked, and she held her breath.

"...Tifa."

On seeing him, she was flooded with an overwhelming sense of—relief? She couldn't tell. Her heart began to race and her head grew light, but she pushed it all aside; her surprised face quickly evened out into a familiar smile of recognition. Then her eyebrows shot up, and one side of that soft mouth of hers pulled tighter than the other as she stifled a giggle. "Nice hair."

Though cropped short in the back, it still hung in pieces around his face and in his eyes, soft and thin, plentiful and with a mind of its own. On this particular night it was sticking up every which way, as if he had taken a shower and let it dry all mussed before rolling into bed. Vincent gave the barest quirk of an eyebrow and grimaced, running his right hand through his hair and yawning.

Subsequently, he moved to rub at his eyes with his hand, dazedly asking, "What are you doing here?", and it was at that very moment when she realized that the left arm of his long-sleeved tee-shirt was pinned up above the elbow.

_Oh._

"Did I—is this a bad time?"

He laughed. _Laughed_. "It's nearly midnight." His arm dropped back down to his side, and then he was leaning on the door frame. "I suppose you'll just 'come back later'?"

Tifa's spirits dropped not slightly. "I... could."

It was hard to not roll his eyes at that, but he managed it with a slight sigh. She was too accommodating for her own good. He shifted his weight to his left side—his eyes widened almost imperceptibly for a moment once he remembered he had nothing with which to catch himself—and stumbled shortly, his arm crossing over to steady himself. It was something like a smirk which passed over his face then, in spite of himself. His eyes pinned her flustered expression—frozen in her half-step forward, mouth gaping like a fish—and then he made a show of recovering and turned to go inside. "Come in."

Dark eyes took in their surroundings as Tifa stepped after Vincent into his apartment. The place was roomy on first impression and very neatly kept—not a hard thing to accomplish when there was barely anything to upset. It still managed to be comforting and spacious that way, with its old-fashioned wood-burning stove in the far corner and the deep brown, leather-cushioned couch.

There was a low, square table with a dark finish in front of the couch; there was nothing atop it but a single candle sitting in what looked like a black saucer plate. She recognized it instantly as one she'd given him at the bar, because he'd said the lights in the middle of her dining room were too harsh for reading. On the other side of the table sat the television, its flashing blue and white lights the only illumination in the room. Its shelf held a couple of movies, a few books and an empty vase, but were otherwise empty.

The left wall was nearly all window; through the open vertical blinds, she could see that sliding glass doors led to a balcony with a single rocking chair and folding side-table. From what she could tell by the outside, only the corner residences had balconies. The right wall was lined with cabinets and sink—Vincent was already rummaging around in the adjacent refrigerator. Beyond that, there was an alcove in the back with a closet and a door she assumed led to the bed and bath.

"Something to drink?"

She tore her eyes from the soft-looking fur beneath the table. Vincent stood by the sink, holding a bottle and a lighter. Before she could ask, he sat down the bottle and flicked the lighter once, then twice. When he moved back, a warm flame was flickering in a jar on the counter. Vincent opened a low cabinet with his socked foot, popped the top from the bottle on some unseen edge, and lazily tossed it onto the counter with a 'clack'.

Tifa frowned. "You don't even seem worried at all. What if I come bearing bad news?"

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. "At my convenience?"

"...Fair enough. What have you got?"

"Coffee and tea in the pantry," he pointed, "beer and milk in the fridge. Hard liquor's in the freezer."

In the light, she could see that it was a green-bottled brew. She shrugged out of her jacket and sat down on the couch. It _was_ cozy. "A beer would be great."

"Want a glass?"

"No, thank you."

Vincent grabbed another from the refrigerator and removed the top before blowing out the candle. As he walked over with both bottle-necks grasped firmly in his fingers, she forgot to worry about what she might say and began to worry about what he might think. Such a dunce she was being.

She stood to help him, and nearly collided with his chest in her haste. "Oh—!"

"_Wait-a-minute_."

Tifa froze.

"Sit."

She did sit; and Vincent followed, setting both drinks down gently on the table. He smiled and took one for himself, taking a long sip before sinking back into the cushions. All in all, he seemed pretty comfortable. It was starting to irritate her.

"See?" he said. "No harm done."

"You disappeared," she accused, narrowing her eyes. "Again. Without telling anyone."

He pursed his lips. "I'm sorry."

And that was that, because she hadn't thought of anything else to say.

"Why did you come out here so late at night?"

"I close early on the last day of the week. You know that," she excused. "There's even a law about it."

He was smiling again. "So," said he, raising both brows this time, "you drove two hours to see me, because... you had nothing better to do?"

"I took the train." Her attempted glare faltered. If he'd been anyone else, it might have stuck. She sighed. "Tomorrow's a business holiday."

"Ah."

It wasn't fair. He didn't even bother to hide that her seeming desperation in chasing him down was a source of amusement for him. In fact, he seemed to be flaunting it. "Why'd you stop coming by?"

Of course, she had depended on that. Vincent never told her where he was staying, and he was rarely available over the phone. He would just stop by the bar whenever he felt like it, without giving any notice. She had assumed that he lived nearby—and he _had_. This was one of two addresses she'd found for him.

Vincent leaned forward and set his beer on the table. "I needed some time to think."

"You moved two hours away!"

"I took a job."

She blinked. "Doing what?"

"Mechanics."

"Like in a garage?"

He smiled. "Yes, in a garage."

"I don't understand," she said. "If you wanted to do that, why didn't you just go to Rocket Town with Cid?"

"I didn't want to be that far away."

"But why all the way out here? Did you just wake up one morning and decide to get a job nowhere near the bar? Did you just decide you needed a change of scenery? Why not find work back at home?"

Vincent could see that she was beginning to get worked up. "Relax, Tifa. An old friend of mine asked me to help out. It's only for a while. I'm on a seven-month lease."

"So what, you lost my number?" She trailed off into muttering. "I can't _believe_ I had to go digging to find you..."

Vincent looked about ready to say something smart, his lip curled into a conscious tease, but she cut him off with her finger.

"_Don't_."

He chuckled and sat back to appreciate the eyeful of flustered woman sitting on the other end of his couch. "...Well, it's nice to know you care."

Several moments of silence passed by, during which Tifa sat with her arms folded and her head bowed. When she finally glanced over at Vincent, he seemed to be engrossed in the political commentary on the screen. Rather than fight a losing battle (which she'd apparently been fighting alone), she sat back and began to stew.

He'd run off on his own again, seeking solitude. But that wasn't entirely true, because he was helping out a friend. She wondered if he had a 'one at a time' friend quota. She didn't think it would be a woman inviting him to help in a garage—but that was sexism, wasn't it?

She hoped to high heaven it wasn't a woman.

And Tifa had come to see him. She hadn't known what to expect starting out, but she was there. He was supposed to be uncomfortable. He was supposed to be in trouble. Vincent was always good at hiding those sorts of things, but maybe she had lost her touch. Or... maybe she'd been imagining something that just wasn't there. Maybe he found it charming that she took a trip all the way out there because it truly was silly to him.

Almost an hour went by, and Tifa had given up trying to analyze the situation. It turned out that sarcastic pundits on make-believe news shows could in fact be fairly entertaining. She didn't even realize that she'd almost been leaning into him until he spoke, his voice nearer than she'd expected.

"I suppose you'll be staying here?"

She turned and looked at him. "Are you offering?"

He nodded once.

The truth was that she would have gladly paid for a room if it meant she would be able to see Vincent. But, all things considered, she really could not afford it, and she was grateful for the offer. After all, she'd been prepared to drive all the way back home that night. "Okay," she nodded. "Where do you want me?"

"The couch folds out into a bed," he replied. "I should warn you, though. I'm a heavy sleeper, and used to having it all to myself. So if I roll over on you, just shove me onto the floor."

She shot him a wide-eyed stare, but his grin only grew. _Oh_—he was kidding. Was it hot? "That's... fine. Can I use your bathroom first?"

"In the back."

"There's a light in there, right?"

He laughed. "There's one in the outlet."

"Thanks." She pointed to the bottles. "Trash?"

"I'll take care of it."

Tifa walked back into the hallway and caught the gleam of metal on the counter as she passed. She hadn't noticed it before, and thought it was odd that he would keep it lying right there beneath his kitchen cabinets instead of in his bedroom. But she supposed Vincent didn't have guests often. Far be it from anyone else to tell a Turk where to leave his arm.

She opened the door at the end of the alcove, and stepped through—right into the bathroom.

Well, that was odd. She flicked the switch by the door, and the night-light glowed against the tile. No more doors; there _was_ no bedroom, and it _most definitely_ was getting hot.

Tifa quickly closed the door behind her and stepped on over to the mirror. Just lovely—her neck and chest were flushed. That meant she was nervous, and if she thought he could tell, that would only make things worse. She turned on the faucet and splashed some cold water on her face, dabbing her neck and chest and fanning herself. Reaching for a towel, she closed her eyes and began to count to ten as she dried her neck.

Her stomach was beginning to settle, but the fresh scent of soap—or deodorant, or body wash, or _whatever that was_—wasn't helping at all. If she had to lay next to _that_ all night, she'd never get to sleep. And Tifa had a habit of talking in her sleep. What if she said something telling? What if she drooled on him? It wasn't entirely unlikely, with that scent in the air. What if she brushed against the wrong place? What if they woke up in an awkward position?

She leaned against the door for a few minutes, trying to calm her nerves. Once she was sure she could talk to him without quivering, she turned the knob and left for the main room.

The television was off, but the streetlights provided just enough light to make out the features of the apartment. Vincent was setting some sheets and what looked to be a heavy blanket on the arm of the couch when she entered. He then began kicking pillows out of the way before lifting up the middle cushion of the backseat to reveal a solid, metal bar which he grasped firmly with his right hand and pulled.

"You want help?" she whispered.

"Why are you whispering?"

She cleared her throat. "Do you want help?"

He nodded to the table. "Will you take that and prop it against the wall over there?"

Tifa bent down and dragged the table out of the way, taking the rug with it. That way, she didn't scratch his nice wood floor. She pulled it over to the kitchen area and set it up far across the room from the fridge. "So, what's with no lights?" she called over her shoulder.

"Daylight's free, and night-time is for relaxing."

"Is that so?"

Vincent smirked as the bed made contact with the floor, and he unfolded it the second time. "There's a switch, but it goes to the outlet behind the television. There weren't any fixtures when I moved in, and I haven't bothered with it."

"How long ago was that?" Tifa walked over, straightening her back.

"Three months."

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "So, who's this friend you're helping?"

"An old colleague." He shot her a curious look. "Why?"

Proud by now that she'd managed to keep the waver out of her voice, she was growing nervous again. Tifa usually kept her nose out of_ others_' business, so it was hard to fake nonchalance. "Just wondering. Does this friend have a name?"

"Hm." His mouth was beginning to curl up on one side like before. "John?"

"John Doe?"

"John Corbin. But he has other names, if you'd like?"

She huffed. "I'm not interrogating you."

"Of course not."

Tifa was surprised by the playful shove that followed. She landed on the bed with a short yelp, her wits too scrambled to remember where he'd made contact. She had just enough sense to catch the pillow thrown at her, and suddenly he was pulling her up again.

He motioned to the bed. "Help me with these."

She grabbed one side of the sheet and tucked it under the corner of the mattress. Once it was secure, Vincent didn't have any trouble lifting and tucking the opposite side with his one hand, but she couldn't help but notice. "It might be easier on you if you put your other arm on."

"I'd rather not."

It was said so casually, but still in such a way that she knew it wasn't open for discussion. Nor did she want to discuss it. She simply shrugged and continued helping.

Tifa hadn't been out of line, really. She knew it came off; she'd seen him do it several times when they were traveling. It had surprised her the first time, but she'd gotten used to it quickly. They had all learned that with Vincent, it was better to _not_ tiptoe around things. If he wanted to make provisions for himself, he would do it.

She hesitated once they were done, for some reason not wanting to be the first to hop into bed, but Vincent shook out the blanket with his one hand and tossed it down upon the mattress before kneeling his way onto it. When he began to spread it out by himself, she was compelled to follow suit, and soon they were both warm beneath the sheets.

Only, Tifa's legs were restless, and the heat from Vincent's body seemed to be spreading.

"There are still many throw pillows on the floor," he mumbled quietly, his back to her. "You can barricade yourself, if it makes you feel more comfortable?"

She stared hard at the back of his head. Stupid, girlish notions. "Jackass."

He laughed. "I love it when you talk dirty."

Tifa gasped. "You stop that _now_!"

His laughter grew more animated at that, but he reigned it in. "Okay, I'll stop." He sighed. "You're usually not this tense. Is something bothering you?"

_Of course_ something was bothering her. She was only angry that he wouldn't acknowledge what he had to have known by that point. But she had plenty of reasons for being upset, and thus plenty of viable covers. She wouldn't use his laughter, either—because she enjoyed the sound of it. "Besides you leaving and not telling me?"

"Tifa—" Vincent sat up with a small bit of effort which he himself quickly dismissed. And when he looked down at her, she realized that it wouldn't have had nearly the effect it did if he'd been level with her. "I have only four months left. After that, I'll move back near the pier."

"You were only a few blocks away before."

He blinked. "...You found my old address?"

_Oops_. "Well..." she sputtered, pushing herself up to match him, "shame on you for not telling me way back when! I could have seen more of you."

"I bet." Oh, he looked _very_ amused. "What else did you find?"

Tifa made a tired sound. "Vince, I asked you not to do this..."

"Come on, Tifa. What else?"

She licked her lips and bit down, waiting for words to come. But she would tell him, because his voice had softened. "...I might know where to find one of your sisters. If you decide to start talking to your family again."

Her head bowed, and her hands found their way into her lap. He wouldn't move back, not for long. She'd scare him away for certain if she hadn't already.

But Vincent surprised her again with a kiss on the forehead. "Goodnight, Tifa."

She watched him settle back down next to her, and that was the end of it. He said nothing more, growing silent and still—it was eerie, watching him sleep—beneath the blanket they shared, his shirt partially visible for the tug of the sheets balled in her lap. And so she burrowed in beside him, not minding the fragrance or the heat, but staring at the ceiling and wondering.

·¤·

It was sometime in the early hours of morning when she awoke. The sky was still dark, the streetlights long put out, and she was still so pleasantly warm and not alone. Then, she heard it.

A soft noise, rhythmic and soothing; she _felt_ it as much as she heard it. It was almost like...

Like another presence. She stilled.

Her heart began to pick up the pace. There were no padded footsteps; there was no memory of a cat or a dog in his apartment, and it was small enough that she was sure she would have caught that. Provided Vincent didn't have a pet that preferred to hang out in the bottom of his closet, they should be the only ones in the room.

Slowly and carefully, she rose up on her elbow and inspected her bedmate. He was lying on his back, and still entirely human, from what she could gather. Only...

The closer she leaned, the stronger the vibrations grew, until she was hovering over his chest. If she didn't know better (and she didn't), she could have sworn he was—no, he _was_ purring. She tried not to make a sound. It was deeper and fuller than that of a cat, but nowhere near anything she might have expected coming from a much larger animal. Her own heart began to slow; it seemed to resonate in waves with the heat of his body.

..._Unbelievable_.

Her arms folded close to her body, and she put her ear down to his chest. She was so close to him, a hair's breadth from placing her weight on him, and the sound of his contentment put her at ease and relaxed her muscles—and her senses. She was so wrapped up in it that she almost didn't notice the light touch on her hair until warm fingers were brushing it back.

Tifa lifted her head with a start, but Vincent's hand remained steady and gentle. Half-lidded eyes stared up at her in the dark, a thoughtful and considering expression on his face. Not judging, not weighing; simply observing. He continued brushing her hair, and she gradually lowered herself back down to his chest.

Not like Vincent. She looked again.

His eyes were closed.

He'd said he was a heavy sleeper; she was half-asleep herself. Must have been a trick of the imagination. Was he even aware? She'd seen him drift off into a trance-like state before.

His chest was still rumbling softly. Slowly, she let him take more of her weight until she was completely relaxed against him. He didn't flinch, and he didn't miss a breath. Tifa let herself drape an arm across Vincent's chest, and soon she fell back to sleep.

·¤·

When she woke next, it was to open blinds and an overcast sky. Vincent was awake, had been awake, and was pulling a few items of clothing from the closet. Pants, a work shirt, a tee-shirt. Tifa sat up in bed.

"Morning."

He offered her a smile over his shoulder. "Good morning." He put one work shirt back into the closet and settled for another. "I have to go into the shop, so I'm going to get into the shower. You're welcome to use it, too."

She tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow. "Are you saying I stink?"

"Are you saying _I_ stink?"

Tifa shrugged. "I wouldn't know." She caught his knowing grin as he turned his attentions back to what he was doing, and she was unsure whether to be embarrassed or flattered. She opted for neither and rose from the bed. "I'll straighten things out here. Would you like coffee?"

"Coffee would be nice." He took his clothes and headed for the bathroom.

Once she heard the door click shut, she began the task of putting things back where they belonged. She didn't bother to fold the sheets properly, since they'd been used, and lumped them into a manageable heap. The bed went back into the couch, the sheets and pillows went into a pile on top of the couch, and the table went back to the center of the room. She stepped back to check its position and, satisfied, went to make coffee for the both of them.

She was searching for a spoon when she stumbled upon his junk drawer. Only, it was really too empty to be deserving of the title. There were two lonely take-out menus, a roll of clear tape, a pair of scissors, a pen and a multi-purpose bottle opener. His cell phone was in there—dead, as she'd expected—along with a small container of fluid with a dropper-like tip, labeled "key oil," with a picture of a quarter-note on the side. She'd never known Vincent to be musical, and she didn't see any instruments lying around, so she assumed it doubled as a lubricant for that fancy arm of his.

And, down in the corner and near the front, seemingly on its own by some purpose, was a matchbook from Seventh Heaven. Unthinkingly, she picked it up. He'd used a lighter for the candles around the apartment; she'd seen Vincent smoke once or twice with Cid, but it didn't seem like a habit he kept. She flipped it open.

Empty, each and every single one of the matches gone. And on the inside front cover, in scrawl so messy and unmistakably _Vincent_ that it somehow pretended to be elegant, her phone number.

He_ would_ choose this very moment to waltz back into the room. She kept her eyes on the matchbook; she didn't watch when he fastened his arm beneath the short sleeve of his tee-shirt. But when he stopped to stand in front of her, she found the words. "...I'm sure you had your reasons."

Gently, he took it from her. "I did."

"You could have called me, Vincent."

"...Tifa, sit with me."

He took her by the wrist and led her back to the couch, where they made themselves a spot amongst the reminders of the previous night. She didn't shake off his hold, and she missed the contact when he let her hand go.

Vincent adopted a thoughtful look, starting slowly. "Do you remember what it was like living and traveling with the same people, day in and day out?"

"...Yes." She chose her response cautiously; she had no idea where this was going.

"Do you remember... how I shared a room with Cid?"

"Yes?"

"And do you remember how he was always telling me what he thought was good for me, because he thought he knew me so well?"

"I drove you away."

"...What?"

Tifa sat pinching the bridge of her nose. "I drove you away, didn't I?"

"No, Tifa. Don't you remember? I _let_ you in."

Her chest shook. "I took it too far?"

He laughed softly and urged her into an embrace. "_No_. I just wasn't prepared for how far I would be willing to let it go."

"I don't understand." She leaned into the warmth of his chest. "I thought we were starting to get close."

"We are. That's the thing."

"You don't want to hurt me."

Vincent set his head against hers, a gentle push. "Will you let me talk?" The low tone sent a shiver down her spine. "I _like_ you, Tifa."

"But you don't—"

"_Tifa_." A firm hand under her chin, and she was looking into his eyes. "You're doing it again," he chided.

She gasped. "I'm sorry."

"I got in touch with an old friend, and he asked me for help. I needed the opportunity. I needed to be outside of everything I'd known since I woke up, to touch base with something old. I had to be in the position to miss you again—just a little," he reassured her—"to see what had changed. I was going to call you..."

"You should have."

"But I didn't know what to say. I didn't know whether to tell you and risk not going back, or to wait and wonder. I kept putting it off... because I never figured it out."

She narrowed her eyes. "So you couldn't say, 'I got called away, see you in half a year?'"

"Would you have been all right with that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you have really just let me go without all of this digging around you do?"

"Of _course_ not," she huffed. "Do you remember how long it took me to get you to open up?"

"You were very persistent."

Tifa fell silent.

"...But I'm glad."

And then the hand that had gripped her chin smoothed its way across her cheek, down to the soft flesh of her throat, brushing knuckles and fingertips along the graceful curve of her neck. When his nose brushed hers, she didn't think twice.

As her hands smoothed over his shoulders, his back, and found the patterns left there—criss-cross designs, over and over again, like dead tree branches in winter—by human hands, and clutched at them through the material to support knees that weren't even standing to begin with...

She understood that it was folly to think she could ever know a living, breathing and changing person entirely. There was no special formula for each specific person. It was much better to grow with them, and a thousand times more likely. When he was unwilling to undress in front of her to pull himself together _physically_, she could hardly be angry at him for not calling when he didn't have the words to say.

Maybe knowing someone—better loving someone—was found in how each day was lived, not how close one could get to a single part of their lives in a month, six months, or a year. If Vincent needed a pause button for his life, she could wait. If he wanted to step back and start something new with her, she was happy to oblige. Three months had gone by; she could do it all over just once more.

He was right, though; this made things much harder.

His heart beneath her hand, the smell of him, the way he held his breath and sighed against her mouth—his warmth and proximity kept her unhurried and in the present. His shoulders tensed and shifted with every brush, every tilt of his head. His whole body was awakened by her touch, as if she'd reminded him of a kiss he'd always wanted to give to her.

Eventually the white-hot spark between them died down to a flickering glow, soft touches of mouths just meeting again and again. "I have to go," he whispered.

"I know. Kiss me again."

Vincent pressed his mouth against hers, pressure without complying just yet, until she felt his mouth form the words. "I am kissing you."

She laughed. "Kiss me like you just did."

"Alright..."

"Wait." He pulled back to look at her, and she followed, nudging his nose with hers. "Do what you did with your tongue."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I'm going to learn to follow it before I go back home."

It didn't take long, when she knew it was coming. Five more minutes passed by before Vincent decided that he really did need to go, but he assured her that he would try to get out of the shop as early as possible. He handed her a key. "You can wear anything or eat anything you find. I'll try to be back soon, and we'll have dinner before I drive you back."

Tifa pocketed the key. "You don't have to drive me, I can take the train."

"It's two hours all by yourself."

"And I don't want you to have to drive back all alone, either."

"I can drive you first," he said, leaving another kiss on her forehead, "and then we can eat somewhere familiar. It would be worth it, I think."

"Dinner at the pier?"

He smiled. "It sounds nice. It'll be different than we're used to."

"And you're going to stop me from taking the train?"

"You won't," said Vincent, grinning confidently. "You want to have dinner with me."

Tifa shot him a look, but pecked him on the cheek and watched him go. They both knew that she would be there when he returned, and they both knew that they'd be eating dinner two hours away. When she thought about it that way, four months didn't seem like such a long time.

And to think that she had almost cut the nearest corner and run away.

·¤·

_Final Fantasy VII and its characters are © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd._

* * *

**02:15:07: **I'm terrible at endings. Sorry to break with tradition; I wanted this up yesterday, but as I was nearing the end, our son woke up. He's been sick and miserable with congestion, not eating, and waking up because he can't breathe out of his nose. I was up for hours with him. 

Thank you, Joseph, for the roses. I'm looking forward to dinner tonight. ♥♥♥


	4. Scenario Four, 2009

**Kiss Me**

**2009**

_by Darknightdestiny_

It all started with a kiss.

But, then again, it always does, doesn't it? That breathless moment within which one thing is completely and instantly transformed into another, and it cannot be taken back; hearts racing and palms sweating, two people take one leap of faith, and this and the fear of rejection are both felt so deeply... And suddenly two faces press together to form a new image, and in that split second there is blessed relief in the _confirmation_ of what they had both hoped to be true—the consumation of those first glances, that first brush of touch and the first gesture of understanding—_I feel you, too._

In her fantasies, he had been the one caught off his guard, struck still by the soft and unexpected caress of her glossy mouth, eyes wide in awe before he melted against her curves. In her fantasies, she had that much control at least—over what she said and did, and over the knowledge of what she was asking of him. And perhaps that had always been the problem; after all, a fantasy is only that much.

——

"I thought this was the busiest night of the year." Vincent glanced past his friend and took inventory of the room—empty chairs, no heat, and one lone beer bottle atop the varnished counter. Not a soul to be seen, save for the one in front of him. Tifa was dressed down herself, in a sweater and a pair of men's sleeper pants, her face bare and her hair sticking up every which way.

The fine, dark strands whipped about her face in the winter chill. His expression adjusted, the query implicit.

"I didn't much feel like it this year," she said. "But you should come in."

Vincent obliged, gliding on foot past the threshold, breath still lingering in front of him. "...Cold, isn't it?"

Tifa 'hmph'ed, but otherwise said nothing.

He took a seat near her drink; she took up her own stool behind the bar and across from him. Another silent question.

"Easy access," she explained, her voice a bit languid. "Can I get you something?"

Vincent examined the Costan brew on the bar top, frosty beads pooling from one surface to another. If she was going to freeze herself... He relaxed into the high back of his chair. "I'll have what you're having."

She opened the unit beneath the counter and pulled another out, all without leaving her seat. Bottle opener at the ready, she popped the cap off and slid his drink to him. "Here's to tropical nights," she said, smirking and holding her bottle up for a toast, "and to not drinking alone."

"Amen."

They both took a swig, hers a bit longer than his—he sat back for a moment and studied her. There was a slump in her shoulders, her eyes downcast, but there was nothing ingenuine about it. Tifa didn't need his attention. He was going to ask.

But he didn't have to. The minutes-long silence was broken by a growl in her throat, followed by a heavy sigh.

"Did you ever think I'd have to look this far for love?"

She was looking at him now, her head resting in her hand and her eyes trained on his. Tifa was absent the wistful non-stop gazing elsewhere and the tell-me-it-will-be-all-rights that he had come to expect from most in his very purposely limited world. There were moments, but they never lasted. Maybe for others... but not with him.

Perhaps that was why he felt she was so deserving.

"I didn't." Honesty. "It never occurred to me that you would have to go looking at all."

"Yeah, me neither." She smiled. "I thought it would begin and end with Cloud."

He nodded.

"I put a barrier between him and me. Even that first night alone... beneath Cid's airship. At the worst possible time..." she shook her head. "I deflected his attention to everything else that was going on. To _her_. Inward, to himself. I asked him to focus, to examine himself and his true feelings. It never got any better after that."

"Do you think you made a wrong choice?"

"Mm. I was afraid. I asked questions when I should have given answers. Why didn't I have those answers on hand? There we were, in this monumental moment, and he was so _conflicted_. Maybe we should have just talked instead."

Vincent digested this for a moment. "Perhaps... but now you know what life would have been like."

Tifa's large, rich eyes met and held his narrow, sharp ones. "I broke up with Lyn."

His eyes blinked back anything that might betray him, and he lowered his bottle. He tasted what remained, contemplating, choosing his words carefully.

_Why? _

_But I thought... _

_You mean that didn't solve...?_

And the clear winner—

"...Are you okay?"

She smiled that sincere, soft smile of hers, and he knew she was. She certainly wasn't afraid anymore. "I guess. You know, I thought for a second there that men didn't understand me. Turns out..."

He didn't need to finish her sentence.

"...I mean, I helped fight for the fate of the planet. That's a big thing. And I'm tired of fighting, I don't care what for. Don't give me a radical agenda when what I _want_ is someone to hold. I've done all that before, and I'm done with it."

He didn't have to ask what she meant by that, as they'd all seen it. The only question left was... "What will you do now?" It hung like an echo in the room, unconsciously much quieter than he'd intended, but nonetheless more powerful.

"I don't know, Vincent," she replied after a moment. "I really don't know." She lowered her head so that her long bangs hung down over her eyes, and she tugged on the shaggy spikes in the back. A side-long glance up at him—"Did I really do this for a _relationship_?"

He grimaced. "It wouldn't be the first time."

Tifa lowered her hand, lifted her head and looked at him soberly. Her eyes reminded him of dark pools of chocolate—his reminded her of broken glass. "No more," she said.

"Hm?"

"I'm so tired, Vincent. I've given up on normal, on fitting in with a billion other people, or even on fitting with one person considered 'somewhat' normal. No one understands people like you and me." She uncapped two more bottles and set them down, throwing hers into a bin with a hard, tell-tale _clink_. He took his with a gracious nod, a sip and a shiver.

"You need someone who won't put you in boxes."

Her eyes crinkled around the edges, twinkled even. "Yes... I suppose that's one way of putting it."

Two more sips on his end and more silence, and he realized then that she hadn't removed her gaze. He tilted his head to the side and raised one eyebrow, which was closely followed by the other. "...Yes?"

"What about you?"

_Huh?_

Her voice was very quiet now, very serious, her face suddenly full of heavy questions. "Are you available these days? I mean... emotionally?"

Something hurt him just then, somewhere deep inside, he just couldn't place it. But it felt darker outside. And much, much colder. "..._Now_ you ask me that?"

"What?"

One deep breath. Two. "You have no idea," he said, "how badly I've wanted to shake you some days. _Or_ how much I invested in trying to put the idea out of my head that there was ever even a _chance_ for us. And _now_ you decide you like men again?"

She glared at him. "What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean? When did I say I didn't? I found out I could never live with a woman—not _that_ woman, anyway. I mean, do you even _remember _rooming arrangements and what a disaster that was? Besides, messing around with someone I don't see a future with goes against my conscience. And, if you didn't notice," she hissed this last part, "I just narrowed that prospective group down quite a _damned _bit."

"I want to shake you _now_."

"_Why_? Why do you get to be angry, when all this time you never said _anything_?"

He heard the broken quality of her tone, the sadness cresting beneath it, and his heart began to soften. "...This is the worst possible time," he whispered.

"Time is all we have, Vincent."

"No. You have the opportunity to stop running around trying to find people you can make happy. You've finally realized that. You can go and figure yourself out, do the things you want to do, and stop worrying about that person who might not love you anymore if you were this or that. You get to start over without any worries or secrets. You can write your confessions," he said—and then affectionately tugged on the third stud in her left ear—"or go and get _pierced_..."

"That one was for me," she grinned, then gently pushed his hand away. "And ouch. That's still off-limits for three more weeks."

"You get my point. Hm—and sorry."

"Are you saying you want to wait and see who I am before you make that decision? That you wouldn't love me anyways?"

"I never said that. I _never_—all relationships take work. Besides, what about me?"

She crossed her arms, challenging. "I know you never said that. I was being rhetorical." _Because I'm already counting on you. _"And what about you?"

"Lyn said you both hated the 'oppressive male sex'. And I have my baggage, too. What if one day you decide—"

Tifa tried not to laugh, but it came out anyways. "—that you're too much? Or not enough?" She chuckled. _Still afraid of being lumped in with someone? You never had to worry about that. _"Lyn was jealous of _all_ my men. _Especially_ you."

Her forehead pressed against his playfully—her breath was driving him wild, and it wasn't so cold anymore. "Wonder why," he teased.

"Yes, why ever could that be?" Her mouth inched a bit closer. "I'll tell you one thing: your _sex_? It had nothing to do with it. In that, you were the exception. I couldn't have cared what you were, and _that's_ why people who might have cared were threatened by you. But that's nothing new to you, is it?"

"Well," he began, "it's nice to know that you don't see a man when you look at me..."

"Not _just_ a man." Tifa laughed and rubbed her nose against his. "I'd take you—in _any _form."

She never even had a chance. Rather than give her what she expected—a challenge—he crossed the distance immediately. In that instant, his argument went out the window. He couldn't take it back, and if there _were_ any boxes to put her in—well, they'd just have to be done away with, because there wasn't going to be room for those. He'd already accepted the whole package, the whole Tifa, and nothing that had happened already had dampened his want for her yet.

As for Tifa, she was still for a second, as if deciding—but she already had him, and what if someone else _had_ gotten there first? Well... they _had_, hadn't they? But they were both in the unique position to start over, and so her hands found their way into his hair—and all of a sudden she noticed that there was that counter between them, and that she was nearly leaning out of her chair—and soon she found her way over the divide and into his lap.

If there was _anyone_ she could trust, anyone in the whole world...

His body was warm and inviting, his hands a welcome presence on her hips. His mouth, chapped lips but tongue so much softer and intentioned than she had imagined—and that's when she'd known, really, when she'd been with someone else and still thinking about crossing that divide when he was on the other side of it—was a mix of breath and touch and sound, and then...

"You _know_ I'm always here."

She pulled back to look at him, searching. What did that mean, anyway? He'd always been there. "...Don't push me away."

"I'm not," he said quietly. The light from outside was quickly fading to grey with the oncoming dusk. "I'm just letting you know, in case you didn't." That had always been the only safe assumption, and one that he'd noted duly. Her leap had been _grounded_ by her faith in it.

His thumb was absently moving up and down her spine, comforting against the solid support of his hand. "I'm still me," she said. "And it's not like I _just_ decided this by process of elimination. No matter that... it might have sounded that way."

Vincent rolled his eyes. "Even I knew that."

"You did?"

"It's hard to miss someone sending _those _looks your way. For months."

Tifa looked sheepish. "I thought maybe I'd missed my chance. But—"

He smiled at her from beneath their dark cover. "Neither one of us died." She could _be _the man, for all he cared—she could be an _antelope_, really. After all, who was _he_ to say what was normal timing, form or execution? She was right—if she had loved him all this time in one way or another, and if each of those ways was so wrong to other people for whatever the reason, what did that make her in their eyes? And what did that in turn make him for loving her back? They had both been waiting on each other at different times; they would be foolish not to take the chance, and to hell with the warnings from those who had no idea what they were talking about.

——

In his fantasies, she was also the one who took him by surprise. And why not? Tifa had always taken him by surprise, had always pushed his ideas of who she was further, until she became something more—something beyond all of his prior expectations. Some might have called him a monster, but her acceptance of his friendship in the very first place was his first lesson: never assume.

So it was normal—whatever that meant, anyways—for her to catch him unawares with a kiss; one that could be justified, one that could change everything. But that was their convention, and why couldn't he defy, just a little bit? They had both started in very different places, and it was his turn to be in awe, and to respond—_ardently_.

It started with a kiss.

* * *

**Dark's notes: **Something unconventional—coming from me, anyways. Or, at least, what you've seen. A lot of things have happened since I last appeared in this haven—and I return because that's exactly what this is—but that's another long story. I want to clarify: this content doesn't necessarily reflect, endorse or deny my belief in _anything_—I am merely telling a story, from two fictitious perspectives which may or may not be informed, and whose manners are also not reflective of mine. This is only one of many ways it could go.

Mostly, I want to thank my life-long friend and next-door neighbor Stephanie for inspiring me, and I want to thank all the readers who asked me to write another segment this V-day. You know who you are. Happy Valentine's Day to Jess, Steph, and _all_ my friends and readers, near and far.

I wrote this between two twelve-hour work days because I _love_ you.


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